


The Art and Application of Grand Strategies in War

by Epimeliad



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Explicit Sexual Content, Historical, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Roman Britain, Roman Empire, Roman military, Temptation, fucking through history, sexy sexy military strategy, they’re both sluts tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29581038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epimeliad/pseuds/Epimeliad
Summary: “Go up to Britannia,” they said. “Expand the empire,” they said. “It’ll be easy.”————Crowley has an assignment he’s not particularly invested in. Aziraphale has an assignment he’s very invested in. Neither of them are very good at what they’re supposed to be doing, but they can probably reach some kind of agreement.————A short (smutty) story about what happened to the Ninth Legion
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	The Art and Application of Grand Strategies in War

**Author's Note:**

> This is only tangentially a follow up on my first fic, Olives For Breakfast. You won’t miss anything by not having read that first, this is just not the first time they have sex.

**AD 120, Deep in the forests of Caledonia**

  
Crowley is freezing. It’s July, and he’s freezing. He’s not supposed to be this far north, it can’t possibly be good for him. But no, no. “Go up to Britannia,” they said. “Expand the empire,” they said. “It’ll be easy.” Crowley isn’t stupid enough to admit that what he has reported back as ‘exerting considerable demonic influence over the emperor’ has mostly consisted of drinking wine in the shade by the pool of Hadrian’s villa in Tivoli. So up to Britannia he must go, even though he’s not exactly sure what he is going to do when he gets there. Military strategy has never really been his thing. But he has avoided a lot of work by taking credit for a lot of things lately, and some actual work might be in order. Going up north feels self-advertising enough that it will be a while before they ask for something new.

If you’ve seen one Roman army camp, you’ve seen them all. And Crowley has been in exactly one army camp before this, but manages to quite convincingly pretend like he has been to at least three. He has expected to find something rudimentary, from the information he was given the ninth legion is supposed to be on the move further north, but what he finds is clearly semi-permanent, with several of the soldiers busy enforcing the palisade around the perimeter of the camp.

Canvas tents in orderly lines form the edges of the main road of the camp, the Via Praetoria, which predictably leads up to the Praetorium, where the generals confer. It is the obvious focal point of the entire camp, with its ostentatious red canvas. Crowley doesn’t really get the whole imperial red/purple/gold-aesthetic, so in order to avoid the purple paludamentum cloak of officers, the story is that he’s an advisor to the emperor, and he can stick to the black.

The red canvas is pulled aside to let Crowley into the Praetorium, and he gives his plan a last run-through, some simple goading to get the general to recklessly attack the Caledonians. Go win your glory, you’ll be a hero, yada yada. Men thirsty for blood and glory rarely need much prompting. They need permission rather than temptation. The plan is flexible, made to roll with the punches, but nothing has prepared him for the right hook of finding Aziraphale bent over a map on the table at the centre of the tent.

He, and the three officers around him, look up immediately Crowley is led into the tent.

“Legatus Crowley, an envoy directly from Imperator Caesar Traianus Hadrianus Augustus,” the guard who’s been leading Crowley around the camp proclaims, far too loudly for the fairly small confines of the praetorium.

The officers promptly salute.

Aziraphale stares.

Crowley gives a bit of a wave. He’s pleased to see Aziraphale, he’s always pleased to see Aziraphale, but meeting him _here_ and _like this_ seems to indicate something has gone very wrong. Are they on the same side? That can’t be right.

“Crowley, it’s lovely to see you, but what are you doing here?” Aziraphale asks in a hushed tone, extricating himself from behind the table. He turns to the officers around the table with an apologetic air. “If you could just give us a moment, this is an… old acquaintance of mine.”

At this, the officers actually _salute_ Aziraphale, and Crowley feels his eyebrows shoot up and mouth fall open. Well, that was certainly unexpected.

“Should I salute you too?” Crowley asks with a smirk.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, but throws a look over his shoulder to make sure the other officers have left the tent. “I think that you as Legatus and me as Legatus Legions would be of roughly the same rank.”

“Imagine that.”

“Only, I’m _really_ a Legatus. I was appointed by the emperor himself,” Aziraphale points out primly and straightens out his white tunic.

Oh, so Aziraphale doesn’t know what’s going on either, that’s a relief. Seeing Aziraphale out of his depth always makes Crowley more comfortable. He takes off his cloak with a flourish and drapes himself across the curule chair.

“So was I,” he says with a satisfied grin. He cherishes the way Aziraphale’s certainty falters visibly. “Would you like to see the letter? Or can we skip that bit?”

“How do you know the emperor?” Aziraphale asks ever-so carefully.

Crowley realises exactly what he’s fishing for.

“One could say biblically.” It’s a lie, but it’s worth it to see Aziraphale roll his eyes and flush a bit. “I like the beard, it gives you something to hold on to.”

“Don’t be crass,” he tutts, but can’t completely stop himself from smiling.

For a brief second, they’re back in Rome half a century ago, drinking wine and flirting over oysters. But then Aziraphale looks towards the map on the table again, and looks decidedly crestfallen. He sighs deeply and crosses his arms. “Can we get this over with? I assume you’re here to make all of this even harder. And I can tell you that there’s enough of things making this hard enough as it is, so just do your thing and I can get on with mine.”

“So no thwarting? No righteous smiting?”

“I haven’t smitten you for centuries.” Aziraphale looks away like this is a fact he’d prefer not to be reminded of.

“What if I told you I was actually here to _help_?”

“I would call that dubious.”

“Yes, I would too,” Crowley admits. “But here I am, with the specific mission to ‘facilitate the expansion of the Roman empire’."

Aziraphale purses his mouth in suspicious disbelief, but he doesn’t make any kind of effort to stop Crowley when he heaves himself up from the chair and makes his way up to the map on the table. For a second he even imagines there is something even akin to hope in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“So,” Crowley says as he moves around the table to look at the horribly incomplete map. When you’ve seen the whole of earth actually being created, from a bird’s eye view, the whole human project of cartography becomes similar to watching a toddler try to put together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. “What’s going on up here, then?”

“Expansion, supposedly,” Aziraphale mutters and puts his head dejectedly in his hands.

“For the sake of expansion?” Crowley asks with a raised eyebrow. “Sounds positively diabolical.”

“For the sake of Christendom,” Aziraphale corrects him.

“But Rome isn’t Christian,” Crowley points out. “That’s why _I’m_ here.”

“It will be,” Aziraphale sighs. “Gabriel laid out the whole blueprint at the last Millennial Commencement meeting.”

“Blueprints don’t sound all that ineffable.”

Aziraphale glares glumly at him; this is a conversation he’s not in the mood for.

Crowley looks down at the map that only vaguely represents the Roman Empire. If it all were to become Christian it would constitute a considerable land-grab. The plan would also be fairly easy to foil if Hell got wind of it. After all, they are still convinced Rome is _their_ thing. Mostly because that’s what Crowley tells them when he’s drinking wine at the emperor’s villa. “Should you be telling me this?”

Aziraphale looks suddenly aghast, and puts a hand to his mouth as though to stop anything more to get out. He does a quick mental calculation of what he has already said, and widens his eyes in horror.

“Stop with the theatrics,” Crowley mutters and waves Aziraphale’s terrified gasping with an eye-roll. “I won’t say anything. Cross my heart and hope to die, and all that. But not really, because that would actually kill me.”

Aziraphale get up and circles around the table, looking at the map as though it might change to something better. “This was supposed to be my way back after the whole Peloponnesian debacle… They seem quite invested in the militaristic angle.”

“Well, you _were_ the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Yes, and we both know went. I think it was more of an ‘aspirational appointment’. I think they hoped I would rise to the challenge.”

“So I assume the whole ‘expansion’ thing isn’t going too well?”

“It’s absolutely impossible. It’s like we’ve hit a brick wall,” Aziraphale says and draws a line across the map with his finger. “The supply lines are stretched too thin, the climate is appalling, and the attacks from the Caledonians are too difficult to ward off. The best we can hope for is to hold the line and try to defend what we’ve already managed to conquer.”

Crowley keeps looking intently at the map, but his mind if far off, churning over an idea. He really doesn’t know how it’ll go over.

“What if we just… cut our losses?” he suggests, chewing the inside of his cheek.

Aziraphale’s suspicious look is back at the flip of a switch. “What?”

“You don’t want to be here, I _definitely_ don’t want to be here. Why don’t we just go to Aquae Sulis? I hear they have a great bath there. Fuck this.”

Aziraphale tries very hard to look like he isn’t interested in the idea. Crowley knows which pressure points to hit. He knows that Aziraphale likes a good bath. But he doesn’t know if he should push harder, or if he should let Aziraphale tip over the edge on his own.

When he realises he should push harder, and opens his mouth to drive his point home, Aziraphale makes up his mind and slams his hand down on the map.

“No, stop that!” he protests firmly, almost angry. “This is exactly what happened in Athens!”

They don’t talk about what happened in Athens. A fraction of a second too late, Aziraphale remembers this too.

“The whole Peloponnesian War, I mean,” he clarifies quickly. “We sat that one out, and I didn’t hear the end of it for centuries!”

“Yeah, well, sure…” Crowley shrugs. He got his fair share of flak about that one as well, although it's never exactly clear which side he was supposed to have been on. “But that was different. Our priorities were a bit off, I’ll give them that. But we needed a break, we had earned it.” (They hadn’t.)

Aziraphale is thinking. Crowley tries to get a sense of where he’s leaning, where to press and how hard. Sometimes a feather on the scale is all that’s needed.

“But you’re here now! You gave it an honest try,” Crowley wheedles. “It’s not your fault. You said it yourself, the supply-lines are stretched too thin.”

Aziraphale nods almost imperceptibly in absentminded agreement. He then catches himself in wide-eyed shock and stares accusingly at Crowley.

“You tempter!” he exclaims insulted. “You’re trying to tempt me, you awful, awful… tempter!”

Crowley concedes. “Okay, so I’m not _not_ trying to tempt you, but…”

“Stop that! I have to see this through,” Aziraphale says with a tone of finality that Crowley knows better than to argue with.

Crowley doesn’t say anything (for once), which forces Aziraphale to sit with his sharp words for longer than he’s comfortable with. He can see him squirming uncomfortably at having raised his voice.

“Dinner is at seven,” Aziraphale manages to get out, and is clearly pleased with himself at not having apologised for his behaviour. “I’ll have a tent arranged for you. According to your status, of course.”

Crowley tries very hard not to smile at Aziraphale’s attempt at being discourteous.

“Carus?” Aziraphale calls out, effectively putting and end to the meeting. “Carus! Can somebody get me Carus, please!”

Crowley knows that the argument isn’t over, he knows that Aziraphale can be persuaded. He _wants_ to be persuaded. Crowley just needs to find the right strategy.

* * *

Dinner is a dismal affair. Crowley’s had dinner with officers before, in Gaul a few centuries ago, and in his experience there was little difference between that and a perfectly civilised dinner in a villa somewhere. But what Aziraphale said about stretched supply-lines is clearly an issue bad enough to reach the officers’ dinner table. To start with, they’re eating _sitting up_ which always feels a bit grim when you’re used to being comfortably stretched out on a couch. Crowley knows on some level that what they’re eating is a lot better than what the soldiers are eating out in their tents, but what’s in front of him doesn’t look particularly appetising. Coarse bread, some kind of salted meat and a bowl of porridge made from peas or some kind of grain, and he’s not tasting it to find out which. They’re drinking wine, it’s not good, but perfectly acceptable, but some of the lower ranking officers drink posca, a revolting mixture of water and vinegar.

Aziraphale is poking around at the food in his bowl, clearly avoiding Crowley’s pointed glances from across the table.

“So, any news from Rome?” asks Lucius Florentinus, Aziraphale’s second in command. He breaks a long, tense silence, and everyone at the table turns to look first at Florentinus, and then to Crowley.

“Eeh…” Crowley hesitates. He is there as an official envoy, but he doesn’t really have any information to impart. He doesn’t keep up with current events. “I mean, Hadrian is visiting down south, but I guess you already know that.”

“Yes, we’ve heard that,” Florentinus says eagerly. “Did you see anything on the way up here?”

“They’re digging a really big ditch down in Lindum Colonia.” Crowley is racking his brain for what could possibly be interesting.

The officers nod and hum in agreement, the big ditch in Lindum Colonia has clearly been a topic of conversation.

“How is it coming along?”

“The ditch?” Crowley can’t fathom that someone wants him to expand on the topic. “Yeah, it’s… it’s a big ditch. Very, um, wide.”

There is more nodding and humming. Fuck, that’s grim. Crowley tries to imagine spending more than two nights somewhere ditches is considered interesting conversation. He takes a deep drink of wine and holds it out to be refilled.

“So have you heard anything about the Emperor’s plans while he’s here?” Aziraphale asks politely.

“Well, he’s going north I think,” Crowley shrugs. The men around the table are hanging on every word he says. “Not this far north, of course, but you know, like Eboracum or something.”

A despondent sigh runs through the room.

* * *

“No, really, now I understand why you want to stay here,” Crowley says when he and Aziraphale are alone in Aziraphale’s tent. “It’s the riveting conversation.”

Crowley lies down on the couch in the corner. It’s a roomy, luxurious sort of tent, with carpets, a brazier and generous seating. It’s the kind of tent where increasingly desperate men have meetings for hours. Aziraphale sits down on the couch opposite.

“They are good people.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Good people are often very dull.”

“Any news from Rome?” Aziraphale asks, though it’s clear that what he’s asking is for gossip, not news.

“Well, yes,” Crowley says and stretches out on the couch. He pretends that he can’t see Aziraphale looking at him from the corner of his eye. “Your old friend Suetonius.”

Aziraphale goes very, very still, and his ears go very, very red.

“Yes, I knew about that,” Crowley brushes off with a satisfied grin. “Hadrian made him his personal secretary a month or two back.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaims and claps his hands together with pleasure. “That’s an excellent appointment! He’s bound to be a terrific influence on the emperor.”

“Yes, he is rather, isn’t he?” Crowley agrees begrudgingly.

“And is he…” Aziraphale clears his throat and fumbles for the right word. “Is he _influencing_ with the emperor?”

Crowley chuckles a bit. “No, that would surprise me. The emperor’s tastes seem to skew younger. He has a new _favourite_ , Antonious.”

“Oh, really?”

“He seems nice enough. Pretty,” Crowley waves vaguely. “Kind of bland.”

It remains unsaid that Crowley doesn’t find Aziraphale bland, but Aziraphale looks away with a bashful smile as though it was said aloud.

“Let’s play latrones!” Aziraphale says loudly to change the subject.

Crowley can’t understand why Aziraphale likes boardgames so much, because he’s absolutely rubbish at them. Especially the ones that require any kind of strategy. He had a fabulous game back in Ur a few millennia back that they played once, but he was just as rubbish at that. To top it all off, he won’t even gamble on it. Crowley assumes it’s some kind of self-flagellation angels engage in instead of having fun. He understands cards, and dice, and gambling, but this? This is beyond him. He wins every single time. Of course, he cheats wildly, but still.

They have gone through three rounds, and moved down to pillows on the ground,when Crowley decides to try again.

“I could snap my fingers and we’d be in Aquae Sulis right now,” he suggests, careful to let the suggestion be open to be interpreted as a joke.

“I know that you can,” Aziraphale answers measuredly. “I could as well.”

“We could have a proper dinner. Fresh fish, nice wine. There might even be a few strawberries still. It’s allegedly summer after all.”

Aziraphale clenches his jaw as he sets up the board again. “I can’t leave.”

“You won’t prove anything here.” Crowley is treading carefully.

“I’m _not_ trying to prove anything,” Aziraphale is also choosing his words with care. “It’s about _loyalty_. I have a responsibility to these men.”

This is close to becoming an argument, but neither of them want it to, which allows the tight-rope-walk to continue.

“I _can_ help you,” Crowley admits, and watches Aziraphale make a terribly stupid move on the board. “But I really don’t think you want me to.”

He takes a deep drink from the glass on the ground next to him. Aziraphale is either thinking or waiting for Crowley to go on.

“I could help you push further north.” Crowley is speaking softly, and pushing his piece up the board as he does. It’s an awful move, but it underlines his point in a nice way, so it’s worth it. “I could make sure the Caledonians turn around and run the other way for a while.”

Aziraphale is very still, turning every word over in his head. He knows he’s being tempted this time, and he’s on his guard.

“You would have a great victory on your hands. Gabriel would be happy, the emperor would be happy, you…” Crowley makes a hedging sort of sound. “Nya, I won’t say _you_ would be happy, everything would still be shit up here for you. But still, you might even get some extra rations of wine.”

“…But?” Aziraphale supplies suspiciously. “I assume this is where you let me know what you want for that?”

“One would think so, wouldn’t one?” Crowley surreptitiously swipes one of Aziraphale’s pieces one step to the left when he moves his own. “But maybe I’m in a generous mood?”

“Oh, really?”

Crowley knows that he has been vague and teasing enough to imply that he’d want sex in return, that was the entire point. And he is surprised and a little bit thrilled to see that Aziraphale isn’t put off by the idea.

“And if I was tempting you for real, this is where I would get you to do that. _That_. That thing you’re thinking _right now_. Yes, exactly that. Oh, and _that_ as well,” Crowley closes his eyes theatrically and wiggles his fingers at Aziraphale, pretending to read his mind. “Well, I’d consider doing _that_ , but you’d have to buy me a drink first.”

Aziraphale laughs it off, laughs off the wound up tension of what he had just imagined doing, like he hadn’t done it at all.

Crowley has another drink of wine instead.

“But it’s all a monkey’s paw thing,” he goes on after a while. “Your supply lines won’t be any stronger. The Caledonians will eventually turn around and find you again. Winter would come and cut you off even more. All of these people will be dead before spring. All five thousand of you. Well, of _them_. You’d still be fine, though. You’d be golden. No one will blame _you_ for any of that. It is inevitable. But they don’t care. They don’t care about a single legion. Hadrian doesn’t. Gabriel _definitely_ doesn’t.”

“And you do?” Aziraphale asks in disbelief.

“Oh fuck, no!” Crowley recoils from the implication. “I couldn’t care less about the legion. But you clearly do, for some reason. So it’s up to you.”

“I can’t leave them up here.”

“You’re not a military commander, angel,” Crowley says in a way that was supposed to sound reasonable, but comes out as fond more than anything.

“So how would you do it, then?” Aziraphale asks, with a slight shift of tone that makes Crowley look up to gauge the situation. It sounds like an invitation and a challenge. Aziraphale even unfolds a leg to nudge playfully at Crowley’s elbow.

“First I would assess the landscape,” he begins slowly, eying Aziraphale. He hums approvingly. “Seems hospitable enough.”

Aziraphale grins.

“Seems to be fairly easy to conquer,” Crowley adds with a wink.

“Easy to conquer?” Aziraphale laughs.

“Yes, the locals are absolutely guileless,” Crowley goes on, shifting his position to reach his pocket, where he had collected a handful of black and white latrones pieces during their game. He also manages to shift a bit closer.

“You could never have won fairly,” Aziraphale objects.

“I wouldn’t play fair,” Crowley shrugs, not really sure what game they're referring to anymore.

Crowley moves his hand to place it on Aziraphale’s ankle, bracing for a rejection, a slap on the wrist, both literal and figurative, but when his hand lands on the warm skin, Aziraphale just shifts his leg a tiny bit closer.

“I would send out scouts,” Crowley continues when he knows he is allowed, and lets his fingers brush easily against the soft, light hair on Aziraphale’s ankle, slowly moving up to the calf. “I’d try to secure a port.”

Crowley edges a bit closer, until he can press his lips against the hard bump of Aziraphale’s talus. He lets the tip of his tongue touch the skin as he pulls away. The salt tingles invitingly. Every instinct in his body tells him to lave his tongue along the leg, to bite the soft calf, but he fights it down. He looks up at Aziraphale, for some kind of confirmation that he’s allowed to do this. Because he shouldn’t be.

“Ports are important from what I’ve heard,” Aziraphale agrees in a breathy sort of way, but he doesn’t look away from Crowley’s hand on his ankle.

When this happened before, it was under cover of darkness, caught up in a moment, frenzied and hungry and over far too quickly. But there was also no responsibility to be meted out, no one could reasonably be held accountable. Now there is no confusion at all about what is happening, who is doing it or what it will lead to.

“From a settlement on the coast it would be easier to move further inland,” Crowley continues, and lets his hand move up the curve of the calf to the warm crook of his knee. The softer, thinner skin is warm in a way that feels decidedly intimate. He leans closer, pressing his lips against the soft skin behind the knee, this time letting his tongue press against skin and he can taste the tang of sweat and salt. Aziraphale even shifts his leg at bit, in order to give Crowley better access, even as he twitches to suppress the tickling.

“The further inland I got, I would erect a series of milecastles,” Crowley continues, turning the leg gently and pressing hard kisses up the inside of the soft thigh. The sweet give of the flesh makes his fingers itch to dig into it. He reaches out his other hand to first stroke, then grab tight the other thigh, feeling the supple movement of skin and fat and muscle. The sound Aziraphale makes is somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and it makes the hairs on Crowley’s arms stand up.

The white tunic is not the soft silk he’d worn in Greece, but a nice wool instead. A concession both climate and uniform, but at least he hasn’t adopted the braccae trousers many of the lower ranking soldiers have taken to wearing, so Crowley can easily slip his hands underneath it, and further up his leg. He stops when the tips of his fingers reaches the linen subligaculum.

“The locals seem to have mounted some sort of defence,” he observes before he can stop himself.

Aziraphale lets out a snort of laughter, effectively dispelling the tension that had reached an almost oppressive weight. He sits up and grabs Crowley by the shoulders, pulls him up and kisses him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, closed-mouthed and smiling. The kiss softens, and their lips part, tongues touching hotly.

“You’re trying to distract me,” Crowley accuses. “I’m in the middle of an invasion.”

“I thought you reached an insurmountable obstacle.”

“No, I’ll simply storm their defences,” Crowley decides and reaches back in under the tunic, delighted by Aziraphale’s giggles, and by the firm line of his erection through the thin linen. He fumbles with the ties as he tries to work them open, but he eventually succeeds.

He pushes Aziraphale back down with a palm to the chest, and he lies back down on the pillows and blankets.

“Exceptionally easy to conquer,” he concludes, trying to sound smug, but it comes out a bit strangled when he pushes the tunic up and out of the way.

Aziraphale’s cock is resting against his stomach, warm and thick and heavy. The smell of his arousal makes Crowley’s mouth water, and he leans in closer, running his tongue along the underside from root to tip, tasting the skin and sweat and precome. Grasping the base he angles it down a bit to get it into his mouth properly, feeling the salt of it melt into his saliva and mingling deliciously. A shiver runs down his spine when Aziraphale exhales shakily somewhere above his head. He flattens his tongue and lets the cock slowly sink deeper into his mouth.

For a second, he thinks he should pull out all the stops, show off and throw all the tricks he’s managed to collect over the years at him. But he is nicely buzzed by the wine, the blankets are so warm and comfortable under him, and Aziraphale’s heavy breathing is like music to his ears; it’s too good as it is. And underneath it all he can feel a calming thrum of a certainty - this isn’t the last time they’ll do this. He doesn’t need to impress to be allowed this again.

“Darling, it’s…” Aziraphale breathes above him, and Crowley glances up to see Aziraphale resting on his elbow to be able to see better. He can’t tell if it’s a request to go faster or slower, he just knows that it clearly doesn’t mean ‘stop’, so he doesn’t.

Aziraphale puts his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, stroking absentmindedly with his thumb at the crook of his neck. Crowley hums, and shifts a bit so he can nudge Aziraphale’s hand to hold the back of his head and card his fingers through his hair. It sends soft, pleasurable shivers down his back, the way it only suggests how easy it would be for him to grasp tighter. Crowley quickly tamps down the swoop his stomach does at the thought. No, this time won’t be like that. There’ll be time for that.

In spite of the nice, lazy tempo Crowley has set, he can feel Aziraphale’s foot tighten and dig into the blankets, and the muscles in the thighs tremble. Crowley doesn’t quicken his pace at all, but only takes him in deeper, until his lips are pressed around the root, and his nose is nudging the swell of his stomach, and then off again, until only the head is resting on the flat of his tongue. And then down again, in what he knows is a painfully leisurely pace.

“Ah, I think I’m —“ Aziraphale chokes out after a moment, but holds Crowley’s head in place, pressing deeper in a way that renders the courtesy warning meaningless. Crowley can feel the thighs tensing, and then the slight swelling and throbbing in his mouth as Aziraphale comes down his throat. Crowley swallows around him, and swallows again, until the tight grip in his hair lets him go, and he can draw back from the slowly softening cock.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says quickly when he’s had a moment to come back to himself. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“S’fine,” Crowley slurs, with a pleased smile that makes it clear that it’s more than fine. He rests his head on his hand. He knows his lips are red and flushed, and a thread of saliva is drying on his chin, and Aziraphale is staring. Crowley preens a little and turns over on the blankets to reach for his wine-glass. The wine stings his swollen lips, but mixes wonderfully with all the other tastes in his mouth. He drains the glass completely and lets it roll out of his hand as he lays back down between Aziraphale thighs, turning his cheek to rest against the downy soft skin.

He’s still a bit out of breath when he hikes his tunic up a little and works his own subligaculum off, and kicks it away, taking his cock in hand for a few quick, rough strokes. He closes his eyes and nuzzles further into the thigh before he can hear Aziraphale’s confused laughter.

“What are you doing, my dear?” He puts a hand on his arm to still it.

“No, it’s fine,” Crowley murmurs into the soft thigh. It’s more than fine. He’s rubbed himself off to the thought of nestling between Aziraphale’s thighs, but being allowed to do it for real is still exceeding expectation. He’s not far off, and lets an arm snake around the leg and press it against his face, his mouth.

“Only, I had another idea,” Aziraphale says in a tone intriguing enough for Crowley to slow down and eventually stop completely. “Turn over.”

There’s a bit of a clamber, when Crowley turns over, and Aziraphale moves tobehind him, and places a hand on the back of his leg, then the other one, and at first just strokes up and down. Then he moves further up, pushing the tunic over Crowley’s hips. The black linen only bunches awkwardly, so Crowley quickly reaches down and pulls it off completely; he doesn’t mind being naked.

Aziraphale’s hands brush over his arse, and narrow hips, and then down the back of his legs again, then again, a little bit harder, the same path up over his arse, his hips, his legs, until he’s kneading his arse. There is a shift behind him, and then Crowley feels Aziraphale press a kiss to the base of his spine, and then another a little further down. He kisses his way down between the cheeks, and Crowley spreads his legs accommodatingly.

The kisses become more and more focused until Crowley feels the tip of a tongue drag across his anus, and he lets out a shaky exhale. His cock is throbbing almost uncomfortably, trapped beneath him, and he shifts his hips, both to ease the pressure, and to push into the insistent touch of Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Oh shit…” Crowley moans into the pillows when the tip of the tongue attempts to press into him. He’s been aroused for so long that it feels like every single touch, of Aziraphale’s hands grasping hard at his cheeks, or of his tongue pressing its way into him, feels like it’s enough to push him over the edge. The sensation of Aziraphale prising his arse apart, of trying to lick into the very core of him, makes the blood rush in his ears, and when he feels a cool drop of saliva trail down the back of his balls, he gives a full-body shudder. But he’s been dancing on this edge for a while now, and he’s physically starting to ache.

“Please,” he garbles, not really knowing what he’s asking for.

Aziraphale lets up for a second, and Crowley looks over his shoulder.

“What do you need?” Aziraphale asks breathlessly, obscenely wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Honestly, not much,” Crowley gasps and turns into the pillows again. “Just finger me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Crowley laughs exasperatedly.

There is the firm pressure of a finger running over the sensitive rim, and only the anticipation of the penetration is almost enough for the orgasm to start mounting in the pit of his stomach. When the angle shifts incrementally, and two fingers press into his wet and pliant hole, it’s all that’s needed to push him over the edge, and he’s groaning his orgasm into he pillows before Aziraphale has even reached the second knuckle.

Crowley flops bonelessly over onto his back on the blankets, wipes the worst of the mess off with one of them. Aziraphale is sitting back on his heels, watching him closely.

“You’ve seen me naked before,” Crowley feels obligated to remind him.

“Not like this,” Aziraphale says abstractedly, maybe even sentimentally. Crowley can’t deal with that. Sentimentality is an inch away from hope, and hope feels like a splinter working its way in under his skin, where it would fester and eventually kill him.

“You’ve seen me _wrestle_ naked,” Crowley reminds him with a smirk.

Aziraphale’s face changes to a completely different kind of sentimentality, something closer to nostalgia. His face cracks up in an infectious smile. “That was a nice day.”

He lays down next to Crowley, hooking a leg over his, but otherwise not touching. Crowley knows Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, but he still appreciates the company as he slowly drifts off to the distant sound of the camp.

————————

It’s still dark out when Crowley wakes up. Dark and cold, and damp. Rain is pouring down outside. It beats down on the canvas of the tent, and splashes in the puddles outside, runs in rivulets along the paths outside. Some time under the night, Aziraphale put a blanket over Crowley, and the black tunic is hanging over the back of a chair. Crowley can reach it, and puts it on before he gets up.

Aziraphale is standing just outside the door of the tent, under a jut of canvas that serves as a roof.

“What time is it?” Crowley asks blearily, because there is so much movement in the camp, people are running around everywhere, trying to save their few precious belongings from the rain.

“Half past four,” Aziraphale says with a deep sigh.

“Will you _please_ let me help you?” Crowley begs. “You can’t stay here. What kind of life is this?”

“I can’t leave them,” Aziraphale says with a finality that leaves no opening for Crowley to try and convince him.

Crowley folds his arms across his chest and leans against one of the tent-poles, and watches then men run around, looking for things that would be ruined in the rain. The paths around the camp are already pure mud, and they’re slipping and squelching and falling over each other. Five thousand of them, sinking deeper and deeper into the mud. There simply isn’t a version of events where these men survive, a version where it ends happily. But this isn’t part of any plan. Nobody’s making a point. No one even cares. So if nobody cares…

“If I do this,” Crowley begins, and is already annoyed by the hopeful way Aziraphale turns to him. “I will blame you if it gets down to it, you know that right?”

Aziraphale just twinkles at him.

It takes a bit of concentration, some effort, and a good grasp on movement in the sixth and seventh dimensions of time-space, but it can still be executed with a single snap like all good miracles can. There is a shift, and then it’s done. The rain is still pouringdown, beating on the tents, smattering in the mud. But there’s an eerie quiet now, where shouting and squelching had been seconds ago.

“Where did you send them?” Aziraphale asks, looking across the now deserted camp.

Crowley shakes his arm out after the quite considerable amount of magic thatpassed through it. “I didn’t really ‘send’ them anywhere. It’s just a reboot. They’re just back where they were a year ago.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale sighs in a satisfied tone and looks around again, like he can’t believe his luck. Like luck had anything to do with it.

Crowley can still feel some of the energy of the soldiers, but it’s fading quickly. “Some of them are back in Eboracum. Someone’s all the way back in Sicily.”

“A lot of them are probably just going to find their way back here again,” Aziraphale thinks aloud, fidgeting with the ring on his little finger.

“That’s _really_ not my problem, Angel,” Crowley sighs. He pushes himself off the tent-pole and shakes some of the rain out of his hair. “Now will you _please_ come to Aquae Sulis with me?”

“I would love to,” Aziraphale beams. “How are we getting there?”

“I really hope I didn’t send the horses back as well…” Crowley mutters and begins trudging through the rain and mud towards the stables. It seems like it might be a long trek south.

**Author's Note:**

> I just really needed to give the Ninth Legion a better fate than they (propbably) got in reality. So this is my main theory from now on. 
> 
> (Also, I know that Antonious and Hadrian weren’t lovers at this point, mainly because Antonious would have been around ten when this takes place, but if I’m rewriting history, I might as well give them a few extra years together.)
> 
> Comments are love! What’s your theory on the Ninth Legion?


End file.
